


Why I never seem to find anything to wear...

by lady_slice



Series: Memoirs from a Good Doctor [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_slice/pseuds/lady_slice
Summary: "I love Holmes dearly, really, I do…however, one of his habits manages to push me to my absolute limit…he’s always borrowing my clothes..."Adapted alternative take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Red-Headed League” in which John must deal with a clothes-stealing companion and a mysterious case involving redheads and a bank heist.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Memoirs from a Good Doctor [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640503
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

_March 28, 1891,_

_I love Holmes dearly, really, I do…however, one of his habits manages to push me to my absolute limit…he’s always borrowing my clothes. Now, one would probably counter that this is just a normal phenomenon that develops once a couple has been living together for some time, however, Holmes and I are not a normal couple due to my companion’s, well, extraordinary habits. I say this out of love and respect, but this is sadly the case. This habit of Holmes’s is so bad that often I can’t find anything to wear. I remember once, it became an issue while solving a mysterious case that involved something called the Red-Headed League…_

* * *

It was a bright Sunday morning and John had wakened early enough to read the paper in peace. Sherlock typically hogged the paper and would often resort to cutting out entire sections to piece together potential clues to trail a suspect before John even had the opportunity to see that the paper had arrived.

He sighed happily to himself as he drank his coffee, flipping blissfully through the front section mused by the nation’s current political drama.

“You’re up early.”

John flinched as he was disturbed by the sound of Sherlock’s weary, yet eerily chipper-sounding voice. John felt him kiss the top of his head before Sherlock snatched the newspaper out of his hands.

“Holmes! I was reading that.” John groaned loudly as he watched Sherlock calmly saunter to the bureau near the breakfast table, producing a pair of scissors before taking a seat at the table.

He sneered at John before he began riffling through the paper, hacking away at sections.

“And thank you for retrieving it. Any good or terrible news I should be aware of?” He asked causally as he squinted at a section before shredding the paper into thirds.

John rolled his eyes as he rose from the table to refill his cup. “Besides what I managed to gather from the raucous down at parliament, nothing.”

“That reminds me…,” Sherlock began, “I need to write Mycroft about that mess…” He had mostly said this to himself, ignoring his companion’s fuming state.

John scoffed as he sipped his coffee. This reaction had become a regular habit of his, anytime Sherlock mentioned his brother, Mycroft, and his dodgy position within the nation’s government. Well, if you asked John, it was mostly Mycroft’s fault; ever since the day he met Sherlock, John had to deal with a steady barrage of snide comments from his companion’s overly protective brother.

 _We’ve been together for three years and he is still the bane of my existence…_ John thought to himself.

The usually perceptive Sherlock barely seemed to notice that John was brooding silently to himself. John watched Sherlock continue to shred the newspaper, pausing occasionally to snicker at something he had read.

Suddenly, John noticed something off about Sherlock’s appearance.

“Is that…” He put his coffee down before hovering over Sherlock, pointing to the shirt he was wearing.

“Holmes! This is one of my nicer shirts. I have been searching all over for it.” He nearly shouted causing Sherlock to hop out of his seat from the unexpected exclamation.

John sighed as he pointed to an obvious stain. “And there’s already a stain on it. How in the world did you manage to stain it so early in the day?”

Sherlock folded up the newspaper before turning to face John more directly. He looked upward at him, his expression similar to a sad-faced puppy.

“That’s from the _other_ day…” He admitted.

John’s jaw dropped as he shook his head vigorously. He promptly marched toward their bedroom.

“That’s it! You’re cut off.” As soon as John reached the bedroom, he began scouring the secret niches Sherlock had built into the walls of the room and inside the furniture.

Sherlock appeared suddenly with a gasp. “How do you know about my hiding places?”

John stopped rifling through shirts, waistcoats, and trousers he hadn’t seen in ages. “You’re not fooling anyone. Whenever I’m in the other room, I can hear you scraping and pounding away.” He tugged on a shirt that had been caught on an exposed nail, tearing it in the process.

John grumbled as he let the mangled shirt drop to the floor. Sherlock held his hands up in retreat.

“To be perfectly honest, that shirt never suited you, dear.” He offered with the most cunning, yet incredibly annoying grin.

John crossed his arms as he sighed once more, looking upward at the ceiling before collecting himself to glare at Sherlock.

“You’re coming to lunch with me and Mary. That’s your penance.” John pointed at Sherlock as he marched out of the room to retrieve whatever was left of the paper.

“Sorry, but I’m terribly busy.” Sherlock had followed him but waited in the threshold of the sitting room, looking quite blasé.

John rolled his eyes with a huff. “What could _possibly_ be keeping you from eating lunch today?”

Sherlock remained unbothered as he sat down at the breakfast table. “I’m a _very_ busy man, my dear Watson.” He began to aimlessly rearrange the scraps he had cut from the paper.

John took his time rejoining Sherlock at the table. He knew he would have to be more gentle to get his oddly skittish companion to comply.

“Sherlock…” He began, redirecting his tone which prompted Sherlock to look directly at him with a curious expression.

“…it would mean so much to me if you joined for lunch.” John made sure to convey his sincerity which he knew Sherlock was a sucker for but would also attempt to push against in an effort to be contrary.

Sherlock scrunched up his face as he peered at John before leaning back into his chair. He tapped his fingers on the table, appearing to be seriously considering the proposal, almost as if he were on the verge of possibly declining.

John countered with a grin, indicating that he was onto Sherlock’s games. Sherlock looked away before turning his head slowly to face John once more. He clasped his hands together, inhaling deeply.

“Fine. But I’m only doing so because I happen to love you.” Sherlock looked away from John with a huff before snatching the paper to finish cutting away at a section.

A broad, satisfied smile crossed John’s face, pleased that Sherlock was playing nice. John then combed through the discarded newspaper scraps, trying to read the pages on international news.

A moment later, there was a light knock on the door followed by Mrs. Hudson who was then followed by a flush-faced, elderly man with a shock of vibrant red hair.

“Mr. Holmes, a Mr. Wilson is here to see you.” She said without making the effort to show the man in.

She glanced over at John, pleading with her eyes to get him to stop Sherlock from attracting random people in and out of the house with little to no notice.

John mouthed the words “I’m sorry” before she quickly closed the door. Sherlock got up to greet the visitor.

“Ah, Mr. Wilson. Don’t mind our dear Mrs. Hudson, she is quite stressed, and I fear my antics are not helping.”

John shook his head as he resumed eating at the table while Sherlock motioned for Mr. Wilson to follow him to the other side of the room.

“Mr. Wilson, please take a seat.” Sherlock waited for his caller to sit on a settee near the chair he usually lounged in.

“Dr. Watson, would you care to join us?” Sherlock addressed his companion as the former sat down, smiling in his usual way that captivated John.

John, knowing full well he would eventually get caught up in whatever this case might be, folded whatever was left of the newspaper with an exaggerated exhale before joining his companion and their visitor.

“Now, Mr. Wilson,” Sherlock began as he waited for John to sit down near him, “please tell us a bit about yourself.” He leaned backward in his chair as he folded his hands on top of his crossed legs.

“Well _that’s_ a surprise,” John interrupted as Mr. Wilson opened his mouth to speak, “Holmes is more apt to deduce a caller on sight. It’s his party trick, Mr. Wilson.” He concluded with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock looked mortified by John’s assertion before shrugging. “Mr. Wilson, beyond the _obvious_ facts that you have done some manual labor, are a Freemason, have been to China, and have done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing.”

Mr. Wilson, dumbfounded by the swift deduction, swiveled his head back and forth.

“How did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Wilson inquired; his bewilderment palpable.

Sherlock shrugged again.

“As for manual labor, your right hand is a size larger than your left. The muscles are more developed from work,” Sherlock pointed to Mr. Wilson’s lapel, “your brooch carries the insignia of the Freemasons.” He then pointed towards the man’s arm, “and the writing can be indicated by your right cuff which is very shiny while the left has a smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon your desk. Finally,” Sherlock leaned backward in his chair again as he looked over at John, “you have a tattoo of a fish above your right wrist and that use of ink could have only been done in China. And, I would know, I’ve studied tattoo ink extensively.”

Mr. Wilson’s eyes lit up with amazement. “Well I never!”

John leaned backward in his chair with an amused grin. “See, it’s his clever party trick that he also uses to solve cases.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at John before turning to address Mr. Wilson again. “Mr. Wilson, please tell us how we can help you.”

Mr. Wilson shook his head a few times before whipping an advertisement out of his pocket. He unfolded the paper before reading it out loud to Sherlock and John, clearing his throat:

“To The Red-Headed League, there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of four pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at elevon o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“What in the bloody hell does that even mean? The _red-headed_ league?” John interjected at the end.

Sherlock chuckled to himself as he squirmed in his chair with unbridled anticipation.

“It _is_ off the beaten track, isn’t it? Mr. Wilson, tell us more about yourself.” Sherlock asked with the most devilish of smiles John had ever seen him expressed.

“I have a small pawnbroker shop at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not very big, and I have one assistant. I can only afford him half wages, but he comes to learn the business.

“And what is the name of this obliging youth?” Sherlock asked.

“Vincent Spaulding. He’s a very good employee, but I’m afraid his habit of running off and taking photos at every instance is his only negative quality…he’ll often retreat into the basement during work hours…making quite the raucous, I might add.” Mr. Wilson answered.

Both John and Sherlock waited patiently for Mr. Wilson to continue as it became clear that their visitor had more on his mind about the subject.

“A few weeks ago, Spaulding showed this advertisement to me, wishing he had red hair in order to join the league. He went on and on about the pay and such, then tried to convince me to join, because, you know of my red hair.” Mr. Wilson pointed to his fiery red locks as if it weren’t already obvious.

“Spaulding managed to convince me to answer the advertisement. Once we made it to Fleet Street, we were met with a sea of every shade of red hair imaginable in the country. We entered the office which was occupied by a shorter man who had redder hair than mine, introducing himself as Duncan Ross.”

John and Sherlock nodded as Mr. Wilson continued.

“…he offered me the job almost immediately but soon after lunged towards me to tug at my hair. Apparently, they had a few instances of wigs and even the use of paint…”

“Paint?” John interrupted, perplexed by the statement.

“Extraordinary.” Sherlock only commented.

“…Mr. Ross then said that the job consisted of sitting in an office for four hours a day copying the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ and cautioned me that I mustn’t leave under _no_ circumstances. Day after day I copied out of the volume given and day after day, I was checked in on by Mr. Duncan Ross. However, after some time, my supervisor stopped checking in, but I never dared to leave since the pay was so good. Everything was fine until the business came to an end.”

“To an end?” John asked.

Mr. Wilson nodded his head. “Yes. I arrived at my usual time to find this sign.” He fished out of his bag a white sign with the date from a few days ago. It read:

> The Red-Headed League is Dissolved.

Both John and Sherlock looked at the sign then each other before looking back at the sign again. The two managed to hold it together until both burst into a fit of laughter which greatly annoyed their visitor.

“I cannot see that there is anything very funny…I can go elsewhere…” Mr. Wilson muttered, face as flushed as his hair as he rose from the settee.

“No, no, please,” Sherlock had jumped up to push Mr. Wilson back down on the furniture, “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But please excuse me in saying so, it is quite funny. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?”

Mr. Wilson straightened out his jacket, taking his time to resettle on the settee.

“Well I went to find the landlord, but he told me he had never heard of the Red-headed league. I asked about Mr. Duncan Ross, but the landlord had never heard of him either. I asked him about whomever owned the office and he said that it had been rented by a man named William Morris. He gave me the address that Morris had given as his new offices, but when I went to the address it was an artificial knee-cap factory. And no one there had ever heard of Duncan Ross nor William Morris.”

“And what did you do next?” Sherlock asked.

“Well after some time to reflect, I came straight to you for some advice.”

Sherlock smirked. “And you did very wisely. This case is quite remarkable, but I fear there are graver issues on the surface than one might initially expect.”

“Grave enough! I’ve lost a steady stream of income!” Mr. Wilson chimed in.

“But you have not lost at all. In fact, you’ve gained quite a bit of money while also capitalizing on some possibly minute knowledge while copying the _Britannica_. Not sure what could possibly be the problem.”

Mr. Wilson shook his head defiantly. “Well, I would like to find out about this league and why they would play such a prank, if it is one.”

Sherlock nodded before he looked over at John who still looked puzzled by the entire endeavor.

“Fine, we will help you. First, one or two questions. How long has your assistant been with you?” Sherlock inquired.

“About a month.”

“How did he come?”

“In an answer to advertisement.”

“Was he the only applicant?”

“No, I had a dozen.”

“Why did you pick him?”

“Because he was handy, and would come cheap.”

“At half wages, in fact.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sat back before continuing. “And what is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”

Sherlock sat up straight in his chair with excitement. “I thought as much. Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair again to pose thoughtfully. “And he is still will you?”

“Yes, I just left him to speak with you.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together before rising from his chair. He motioned for Mr. Wilson to follow him to the door.

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or so. Today is Sunday, and I hope that by tomorrow we may come to a conclusion.”

As soon as John and Sherlock were left alone again, Sherlock turned toward his flabbergasted companion.

“Well, dear, what do you make of it all?” Sherlock asked with a smile.

John shook his head. “I make nothing of it. It’s incredibly mysterious.”

“As a rule,” Sherlock wagged a finger at John before returning to the breakfast table, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace crimes that are _truly_ elusive.”

Sherlock pulled his pipe out of his jacket before lighting it, seemingly done with the conversation. John watched him, waiting for a better conclusion, but then shook his head, knowing that Sherlock was already in deep thought.

“Right,” John started as he headed toward their bedroom, “please be on time for lunch with me and Mary today.”

Sherlock waved him off as he rose from the table to walk to the fireplace.

“And don’t wear my clothes!” John shouted back, prompting a nonchalant shrug from Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

_Later that afternoon…_

“That is the most peculiar case. Have you any leads?”

Sherlock and John were sitting at a table at a nice open-air restaurant with Mary in the middle of the afternoon. John was listening to Mary intently while Sherlock barely acted as if he could be bothered to be there. Yet, he would be reminded why occasionally with a sharp pinch from John on the leg.

“Indeed. Sherlock has been brooding over it for quite some time, but I managed to get him out for the day.” John reached over to give Sherlock a half hug, however the latter was quite invested in the cutlery next to his plate. John pinched him again, causing Sherlock to yelp dramatically, almost knocking over the table.

“Holmes, please.” John groaned.

Mary retained a kind expression as Sherlock resumed his position at the table.

“I must say, Sherlock, you and John have very similar tastes in fashion. It’s very becoming on you two!”

Mary smiled at Sherlock who attempted to look disinterested, but something about Mary’s cheery-sounding voice broke through his usual icy façade.

“Thank you, but what I’m wearing actually belongs to the good doctor.” Sherlock sneered.

John quickly looked over at Sherlock, realizing that the latter was wearing one of his cravats. Sherlock’s expression was coy, knowing full well that his companion would refrain from getting upset over something as trivial as clothing in front of his best friend.

“…Sherlock never ceases to amaze me.” John answered through gritted teeth as he side-eyed Sherlock.

Mary laughed. “Any plans for the evening?”

John made a move to respond before Sherlock interposed. “Sarasate.”

John scrunched up his face before it relaxed; he knew the mentioning of the Spanish virtuoso had something to do with the case that had dropped in their laps this morning.

John kept his arm on the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Of course. Music in the evening. Very quaint.”

Sherlock nodded knowingly at John. “Quaint indeed.”

* * *

Later that evening before the concert, Sherlock and John stopped by Mr. Wilson’s business.

“May I borrow your walking stick for a moment, dear?” Sherlock held his hand out toward John as the latter reluctantly handed it to him.

Sherlock observed the building before walking up the street. He stopped for a second or two, tapping on the pavement with John’s walking stick, before returning to the pawnbroker’s, rapping lightly on the door with the back of his hand. A young, clean-shaven man answered.

“Hello, may you give us directions to the Strand?” Sherlock asked with a grin.

“Third right, fourth left.” The man answered curtly before closing the door.

Sherlock turned around as he joined John, looping an arm around his companion’s.

“Evidently…,” John began as they walked toward the other side of the block, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed league. I am sure you only inquired for directions perhaps to meet him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his trousers.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

John squinted his eyes. “And why did you beat the pavement with my walking stick?”

Sherlock huffed before disengaging himself to walk ahead of John. “My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. Let us explore more.”

John rolled his eyes as he stopped to watch Sherlock continue ahead of him before sighing loudly.

“Holmes!” He shouted suddenly.

Sherlock stopped abruptly before turning to face John. “Yes?”

“You’re wearing my trousers. What did I say?”

Sherlock laughed before quickening his pace. “No talk! Observation only, my dear Watson.”

John groaned as he followed Sherlock who had turned the corner. They found themselves on the other side of the block, which was quite different in character and scale than the side they had been on prior.

“Huh,” John said as they appeared on the other side, “this is very near the bank.”

Sherlock turned to look at him raptly. “ _Very_ near indeed. Come, dear. We shan’t be late for the concert.”

* * *

_A little over two hours later…_

After the concert, Sherlock and John walked out of the St. James Hall to hail a cab, but before John could do so, he was stopped unexpectedly by Sherlock.

“Why don’t you go along home without me…I believe I may be onto another crime…”

John’s eyes widened, but before he could answer, Sherlock took off in the opposite direction.

“Meet me at Farringdon Street at 10pm, my dear! Don’t be late! And bring that handy revolver of yours!” He shouted back at John who was left staring stupefied at the cab.

“Holmes! Sherlock!” John shouted after, ceasing eventually as he watched Sherlock disappear into a crowd.

“You gettin’ in or what?” The driver motioned towards him with a gruff voice.

John shook his head a few times before nodding “yes”, quite perplexed by the evening’s proceedings.

* * *

  
_Later that evening…_

John had trouble trying to find a suitable outfit for whatever he was about to get himself into that evening. His only matching suit was the one he had worn to the concert, and he struggled to find a shirt and a pair of trousers that complemented each other.

 _That damn Sherlock…this can’t go on…_ John grumbled to himself.

After settling on a pair of dark trousers with a cream-colored shirt that John was sure he looked ridiculous in, he left Baker Street a little early in order to meet Sherlock at the time in question. He knew better than to worry; Sherlock would often disappear to follow a trail and it would only become a problem if his companion went missing longer than a day without further notice.

Upon John’s arrival, he found Sherlock in a very animated conversation with two men on the sidewalk at Farringdon: Inspector Lestrade and a man he did not recognize.

Sherlock greeted John as soon as he spotted him, sprinting toward his companion with a devious smile.

“Wonderful, our party is complete. Dr. Watson…,” Sherlock motioned towards the stranger, “this is Mr. Merryweather. And you already know the Inspector.”

John nodded as he shook Mr. Merryweather’s hand. The man looked somewhat gloomy.

“I suppose we’re hunting in couples again.” Lestrade looked at Sherlock and John with a huge grin on his face.

Mr. Merryweather shuffled; his face twitched nervously. “I do hope this doesn’t end in a wild goose chase…”

Lestrade shook his head as he pointed towards Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes has his own, peculiar methods of solving cases, but you wouldn’t be wrong if you placed confidence in him.”

John turned towards Sherlock, still confused by the current situation, but Sherlock picked up on it immediately.

“John Clay. Lestrade has been chasing this murderer for years now. He’s certainly good at what he does. I myself have been following him for quite some time as well.” He ended, still smiling to himself.

Mr. Merryweather began walking with Lestrade ahead of John and Sherlock.

“Dear,” Sherlock stopped John from following, “what on earth _are_ you wearing? That combination is absolutely dreadful.”

John’s mouth bobbed open once or twice with indignation, but Sherlock walked briskly ahead of him to avoid a possible tirade.

“Mr. Merrywheather is a bank director,” Sherlock started up again, quickly, “same bank we saw this afternoon before the concert, Dr. Watson.” The small party walked in the direction of the street where the bank was located.

Mr. Merryweather unlocked a side door to the building which led them down a narrow passage. The party continued until they arrived at a gate guarding an earth-smelling passage. Mr. Merryweather lit a lantern before proceeding through the gate. The group eventually arrived in what looked like a cellar filled with crates and boxes.

Lestrade bumped into a crate, yelping loudly. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder. “I must really ask you to be a little more quiet.” He said harshly.

“I can’t see anything down here.” Lestrade tried to explain before being hushed by Sherlock.

“Please be quiet while I conduct a quick investigation.” Sherlock got down on his knees before searching the cracks between the stones with a lantern near his head. After a second or two, he sprang to his feet.

“We have perhaps an hour before Mr. Wilson retires for the evening.” Sherlock pointed beyond the end of the cellar, indicating that they were near and down below Mr. Wilson’s pawnbroker shop.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “The shop connects to the bank branch?” He nearly shouted from finally deducing the matter.

Sherlock brushed his arm away. “Yes, Watson. But as I said to the Inspector, _please_ do not raise your voice.”

John nodded, albeit still bewildered. Sherlock indicated Mr. Merryweather with an outstretched hand.

“The bank has come into a considerable possession. French gold.”

Mr. Merryweather nodded. “Indeed. We have received numerous warnings that there might be an attempt to steal it.” He added, trying to keep his voice to a low whisper.

“We haven’t unpacked everything yet…” Mr. Merryweather illuminated the crates and boxes with his lantern, “these crates and boxes still hold a sizable amount.”

Sherlock gently grabbed John by the arm, dragging him to a spot near several crates. “And now we wait, please cover your lanterns.”

“And sit in the dark?” John questioned.

Sherlock pushed John downward to sit next to him. “Yes. Although we are at an advantage lying in wait, they will be no doubt armed. Upon their entrance, Watson, I’ll need your famous marksmanship.”

John nodded as he cocked his gun. Sherlock covered his lantern after motioning for everyone to stay still.

“Lestrade, you have your men positioned at the front of the shop, correct? That is their only mode of escape.”

“Yes, Holmes. I have an inspector and two officers.” Lestrade managed to squeak out without raising his voice.

The men waited for a little over an hour until a glint of light shown through the ground below. Suddenly, a hand emerged through an expose crack, disappearing as a stone was overturned. The movement of the ground resulted in a hatch opening up followed by a stream of light. A face appeared from the below the hatch. A body emerged out of the opening before stooping over to assist another figure.

“It’s all clear.” One of the figures started, before motioning for the other to follow.

But before either of the figures could get to the crates, Sherlock jumped from his hiding place, lunging his body towards them. One of the figures dove back down through the hatch. Sherlock wrestled around with the other as John heard the inevitable tear of the expensive fabric that comprised his favorite trousers.

“Holmes!” He cried, strangely concerned for both the state of his companion and the now ripped trousers he had stolen.

The figure broke away from Sherlock, standing up and away before pulling out a revolver. John reacted quickly, shooting the weapon out of the figure’s hand, who then fell to the ground, writhing in pain. John ran over to Sherlock who was in the process of dusting himself off.

“It is no use, John Clay.” Sherlock began as he let John help him to his feet. “There are also officers waiting for your partner at the end of the house.”

Lestrade ran over with a pair of handcuffs, slapping them on Clay.

“I must say, your little red-headed league idea was quite brilliant.” Sherlock said coolly as Clay stopped wriggling around. John noticed right away that the young man had his own vibrant set of fiery-red hair.

“Please do not touch me with your filthy hands!” Clay shouted as Lestrade began to drag him through the passage.

“I have royal blood!” Clay’s voice trailed off.

“ _Right_ , still a bank robber, your highness.” The snarky tone in Lestrade’s voice was quite evident even as it died off with Clay’s.

“Mr. Holmes, I do not know how we can ever repay you.” Mr. Merryweather began as the rest of the group followed through the passage.

“I have my own reasons for bringing Clay to justice, so it was no trouble at all. Also, hearing the narrative of this so-called Red-headed League was only a bonus…”

* * *

The morning hours arrived as Sherlock and John were finally back in their sitting room at Baker Street. Both were treating their worn states with soda and whiskey over by the fireplace.

“You see, Watson,” Sherlock began as he took a sip from his glass, “it was perfectly obvious from the start that the only possible objective of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the Red-headed league and the copying of the _Britannica_ was to get Mr. Wilson out of the way for several hours during every day. Spaulding conjured up the league based on Clay’s hair. They put in the advertisement; one rogue has the temporary office, the other incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation. Besides, who only works for half wages in an economy such as ours?”

John nodded. “But what was the motive for securing this particular house?”

“Why, the cellar, dear!” Sherlock exclaimed loudly, prompting John to recoil from the sudden rise in his voice.

“After leaving you, I went to the Yard to compare notes with Lestrade. There I found that he had been searching for Clay and finally deduced that he and Spaulding were digging a tunnel from Mr. Wilson’s to the bank.”

“Which is why when we went to visit, you were beating the hell out of the pavement with my walking stick.” John breathed out, sounding quite tired.

Sherlock nodded his head vigorously. “Indeed! Nice job managing to keep up, dear.”

“And, when the assistant had answered the door, I recognized him immediately from a newspaper clipping about a robbery a while back. The knees of his trousers were wrinkled and dirty, indicating that he had been crawling around underneath the house and the bank’s cellar. That was when we saw the bank on the other side of the block.” Sherlock concluded.

“Of course,” John managed to add, “…but, how did you know that they would strike tonight?”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, clutching his glass with that self-satisfying grin of his. “The closure of the Red-headed league business. They no longer needed Mr. Wilson and his copying skills; therefore, they had completed the tunnel to the bank.”

“You reasoned it all out beautifully, per usual.” John nodded once more before rising from his chair. He began to walk in the direction of the bedroom.

“I will join you my dear, it is very late.” Sherlock said gleefully as he rose to follow John.

John turned around quickly holding his hand out to stop Sherlock. “You, my dear Sherlock Holmes, are only allowed to sleep with me once you repair my trousers.”

Sherlock gasped before looking downward at the trousers which had been ravaged by a huge gaping hole, smaller tears and some dirt from the cellar.

“But, I…,” Sherlock began, looking upward at John before looking downward again, “I haven’t learned to sew properly. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson fix it.”

John kept his hand in place, blocking Sherlock from passing him.

“Nope, it must be you. You’re so keen on wearing my clothes, that you must repair them.” And with that, John spun around to enter the bedroom, closing the door before locking it.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the space, staring dumbfounded after his companion.

“It’ll take all morning! Possibly a few days! You can’t possibly expect me to sleep out here! You know you sleep much better when I’m next to you!”

“I’ll survive!” John shouted back through the bedroom door.

Sherlock rested his hands on his hips, looking around himself as he scratched his head. He then found a sewing kit near the fireplace. He sighed before taking a seat, pricking himself as he tried to figure out how to thread a needle.


End file.
